Holding Pattern (from the 'Isnt It Obvious' series)
by Emma Lynch
Summary: As my consciousness floats, both nebulous and oddly astringent towards the surface, I inhale suddenly, flexing my left foot in my waking from a dreamless, death-like state. It is then, with a dry-mouthed shock that near stops my heart, that I detect the solid, undeniable warmth of another, twitching limb, adjacent to my own. But it is not my own. It is the foot of a woman.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone!**

 **Apologies for note here (already!) but I never have enough room in the précis area of uploading. The story takes place before Series 4, post TAB. Sherlock Holmes never set out to have friends, but now he has them, he might want to listen to them every now and again...**

 **The story is in seven parts. I would love to hear what you think. x**

 **Emma x**

* * *

 **One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends**

 **can discuss, but in the number of things they need no longer mention.**

 _ **(Clifton Fadiman)**_

* * *

As my consciousness floats, both nebulous and oddly astringent towards the surface, I inhale suddenly, flexing my left foot in my waking from a dreamless, death-like state. It is then, with a dry-mouthed shock that near stops my heart, that I detect the solid, undeniable warmth of another, twitching limb, adjacent to my own.

But it is _not_ my own.

It is the foot of a woman.

 **~x~**

 _Isn't it obvious?_

 _It's been raining for hours; bloody freezing rain, like stair-rods, that soaks through even the sturdiest woollen Belstaff and certainly saturates the puny fibres of a cheap, khaki anorak from the Army & Navy on Stepney Bank. Sherlock Holmes and I bundle ourselves squelchily into the pristine shininess of Lab number two at Bart's Hospital Mortuary (AKA The Morgue. AKA Our Second Home) and face the stiff, white-coated back of the only pathologist who would still be working at such a bonkers hour of the morning..._

 _She is small, efficient, impatient._

" _Oh, you … two!"_

 _The floor, surprisingly, had been recently buffed, and zero hours contracts and NHS budgets being as they were-_

" _Less than a welcome, Molly Hooper."_

 _My friend`s tone is terse and bitten off in its nomenclature. He casts a saturated package, replete with blood-soaked string and an incriminating patina of stains atop the stainless steel bench, where its callous propulsion causes it to skid soddenly (and with eerie accuracy) to a halt just millimetres before the expensive and pristine microscope of Molly Hooper. She twists both her head and mouth in expressions of commensurate disapproval._

" _Less than a little warning, Sherlock Holmes."_

 _I drip silently onto the laboratory floor as the chill from the powerful refrigeration units and over-zealous air-conditioning lifts the bumps across my wet skin and sends a shiver into my gut._

 _In fact, the only heat in that bloody room, where I stand in my (ruined) loafers, after a chase through some of the more disgustingly populated alleyways around Giltspur Lane and The Old Fold, comes from the electrically charged sparks populating the air between those two idiots in the lab. Her fine brows drawn down over the darkest of glares; his Icelandic stare just glittering with the discharged ions that ignite and bounce around their umbrageous heads and uncomprehending glowering._

" _Your laundry?" Her small hand gestures towards the (now leaking) package._

 _Sherlock folds his arms across his chest, failing to note the pool of water collating around his feet, fed by the rivulets dripping steadily from his clothing._

" _Intestines," he intones, snippily. "Walter Hodges, I deduce."_

 _Her index finger prods the parcel, causing a rather unfortunate squelch and belch of stagnant fluid that rapidly begins its spread across the stainless steel._

" _Oh God, Sherlock! (standing hurriedly) It`s almost two in the morning!"_

 _Wet, dripping and deeply in her debt as he is, Sherlock merely purses his mouth into a moue of sardonic mockery that would probably have earned him a slap or two from most quarters._

" _Indeed, Molly. And since time is of the essence, may I suggest new slides for your Leitz and a little focus on your coarse. Putrefaction never put a man in jail, so let's have at it."_

 _And as he sheds his sodden coat to the nearest table, and looms his dark head over hers whilst she cuts the string and removes its awful contents, I know that within the hour, an answer will be found and a puzzle will be solved, and they will both walk away, dry off, sleep, and go about their daily business in the manner of two actual idiots, who know everything and nothing, and lose another day in which they could have been happy._

 _ **~x~**_

Eyes are grainy, gritty, like I`ve been sand-surfing with no goggles (weirdly, I have _never_ been sand-surfing, but the oddity of a re-booted brain upon waking from a tequila induced semi-coma can offer up some strange thought processes) but I am now paralysed by a fear of movement, of betraying myself by showing any external signs of consciousness. Because I need time to regroup, to trawl hurriedly through the amorphous black hole standing guard over my memory of the previous evening, so that I am not caught out _too_ terribly.

Because, I'm in my bed.

Stark naked.

With a hot-skinned, increasingly fidgety bundle of pale and angular awkwardness.

 _A man._

A man I am oddly familiar with (although not familiar in _that_ sense- _God!_ _Not. At. All.)_.

Gritty eyes and rapid palpitations jarring at my chest and throat (which is acrid and bitter and scorched by copious shots of alcohol) are all too much. My hands suddenly grip the twisted sheets ( _oh God_ ) either side of my nakedness and I inhale like I have just been served with my last breath and mean to make the most of it.

I slowly turn around my aching head and fully prise open my eyes, which instantly ( _typically_ ) lock into his, and we _share the stare_.

Bright blue, bloodshot, bleary and bizarrely… _fearful._

"Molly." His voice is like a rake through gravel on a cold winter's day.

"Sherlock."

And we continue to look at each other, since no further words seem possible.

 **~x~**

 _Isn't it obvious?_

" _Sherlock, have you heard a single word I've just said."_

" _Mmm."_

 _Greg leans heavily across the brushed steel of the lab bench as if to touch his consulting detective (but he doesn't. No-one ever does that)._

" _Sherlock."_

 _More quietly, at which Sherlock Holmes tears his eyes from watching Anderson straddling a stool in the far corner of the lab and laboriously setting up a slide._

" _Yes, Lestrade."_

" _Yes? I hadn`t asked- "_

" _Since the beginnings of my first forays into language acquisition (at a precociously early age, and up until the present day) I have undoubtedly heard every single one of your recent utterances before."_

 _Lestrade's eyes say `smartarse', yet his mouth says:_

" _About the lighter fluid, Sherlock; you said it was custom-made- a massively increased combustibility or something?"_

 _But Sherlock's eyes are once again running over the flustered form of Anderson, a frown between his brows deepening with encroaching annoyance._

" _I said `indecently comburent'... such a low ignition point would have meant that the fire… oh, good Lord, man!"_

 _Philip Anderson`s five years of experience in the Met`s Forensic Services have done little to prepare him for the death-ray glare of Sherlock Holmes as three long strides find them_ tete a tete _above Molly Hooper`s favourite microscope._

" _Hey, step away- you're in my light!" An innocent slide slips and crashes across the unforgiving tiles. Judging by the patina of glass shards beneath the bench, it was not the first casualty of the evening._

" _Your adjustments are … inaccurate." The words escape as would a hiss of air from a sinking tyre. Or even, a loss of certitude._

" _I know what I'm doing."_

" _No."_

 _Both Lestrade and Donovan are now nearing the scene as tensions stretch and resonate, trembling on the edges of intent, and Sherlock's hand reaches across the optical bridge and flicks off the electron beam._

" _Hey, what gives you the right- ?"_

" _You are not respecting this instrument. Your treatment of the fibre-optic illumination and ham fisted handling of the condenser aperture was only the beginning- Philip."_

 _Anderson's small eyes become infinitely more malevolent as Sherlock adjusts the iris diaphragm and the condenser lens, putting his own body between Anderson and the microscope, effectively blocking access or even visual contact. The clenching of fists causes Lestrade to grasp his officer's wrist as he watches Sherlock run practised and proficient hands over the instrument, seemingly (and conveniently) oblivious to the offense or inconvenience caused._

" _You-"_

 _Anderson peevishly shakes his hand free of his superior`s hold and succeeds in pointing an apoplectic, shaking finger at the back of his interloper._

" _You do NOT get to use my first name!"_

 _A heartbeat of a moment has passed before his dark head turns, and Sherlock appears satisfied the microscope is suffering no permanent damage. His pale, blue, immutable eyes run over his antagonist as if assessing, deducing, deciding. Sherlock stands, causing in Anderson a slight stagger and momentary reconsideration, until he says:_

" _All seems in order, despite your best attempts to ruin the effectiveness and integrity of this machine." He looms taller, and more distance is had._

" _But in future, Anderson," comes a whisper, imbued with a promise, "YOU do not get to use Molly Hooper's favourite microscope."_

 _And as Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade all stare in unison:_

" _Unless you (very nicely) ask her first."_

 _And the word `idiot' hangs in the air in the manner of woodsmoke on a balmy evening._

 _ **~x~**_

An ominous churning inhabits a digestive system which cannot recall its last solid ingestion. Torturous stabbing pains behind my obicularis oculi, coupled with the steady vascular thrum of the severely dehydrated help distract my jarred sensibilities from the cataclysmic turn of events that currently inspire a tremulous and undeniably powerful fight or flight response. Eidetic memory notwithstanding, I cannot recall a single incidence of my entire existence where my adult naked self has been in such close proximity to another naked person. Had I been prepared for such an event, perhaps the outcome could have been somewhat useful. Observations and recordings of body heat fluctuations have often been found useful in cases of kidnapping, infidelity and even murder. Only six weeks ago, a tenor from a Welsh male voice choir had sought out my services in relation to an interesting altercation and disappearance involving two altos and a mezzo-soprano during a local arts festival. My spreadsheets (although somewhat embryonic) had begun to take shape quite nicely-

"Sherlock!"

Alas, current horrors must prevail as I am dragged from more pleasant trains of thought. My eyes are closed against all onslaughts and I turn and curl, foetus-like, wrapping the sheet around myself in the manner of an oversized caul. The bed dips and lightens and relief floods my alcohol assaulted form as Molly Hooper takes her leave from our shared mattress. I am hoping she will leave and allow me to calculate a method to assist Mr Wyn-Jones, followed by sleeping for a minimum of four hours, since my compromised brain is currently appallingly weak and my flesh vulnerable. I shall never drink again.

Alas, such a luxury is redundant. Absurd.

"Sherlock-" Her voice is so much nearer. Although Molly has left the bed, she is close. I fancy I feel her breath across my face as her words jostle for space in my addled brain.

"Sherlock, you need to find your way to the nearest exits signs in your _Mind Palace_ as soon as is humanly possible. Someone has clearly drugged us, locked us in and stolen our clothes." Her voice rises, hitching a little which sends the oddest of tremors through my solar plexus.

"Sherlock - we are being held prisoner - in my own home!"

My eyes snap open and I note her lashes, freckles, heavy sheaf of auburn hair, tangled wild and free, like brambles and bracken in autumnal woodlands. I note the white cotton sheet ( _cheap, chain store, negligible thread count_ ) she clutches about her body and the fear she exhibits, giving her nakedness a poignancy I cannot even begin to describe. I am currently weak, therefore prone to sentimental introspections. Obviously. I loosen my own sheet and the tension wrapped within its armour dissipates, like mist. I sit slowly ( _allowances for the anvil striking my cerebral cortex_ ) and affect a measure of what I hope is- _assurance_.

"We are not trapped. We are quite safe. There is a more than logical explanation as to our predicament and everything shall be restored within the hour."

A measured perambulation of my head does little to reinforce my impressive reassurance as I discover several points of interest:

I am not in Baker Street.

I have no recollection of the previous twelve hours.

I have a sudden, inordinate fascination in the freckled left shoulder of Molly Hooper (currently exposed by the poorly positioned sheet she holds in lieu of clothing) and am unable to attribute the importance of this.

It must be _apropos_ of a case.

It always is.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Thank you so for the reviews and follows - feedback is love.x_**

 ** _Emma (guest): Thank you, and your wish is my command._**

* * *

 _Isn't it obvious?_

 _Mary Watson folds the tea towel, once, twice, then deftly threads it over the rail. Cups are lined in serried ranks, handles all at the same angle, and dishcloth and rubber gloves are nowhere to be seen, squirrelled away neatly behind closed cupboard doors. Not one movement is wasted or without purpose, and Molly Hooper simply marvels at the efficiency of it._

" _It's just washing up, Molly."_

 _No, it was more. It was systematic; methodical; adept. Mary was adept at the mundane, and the not so mundane, and Molly sometimes liked to watch her in action._

 _They drank coffee, did a little fantasy shopping via the internet and ate most of the carrot cake Mary had made that morning (Molly hadn't seen her make it, but she guessed it had been beautifully executed; bowl to tin, to plate, to mouth- so efficient)._

" _I might beg you to make my birthday cake."_

 _Mary`s eyes light up as she gathers the crumbs, balling them into squidgy pellets at the plate's edges._

" _I absolutely will. What do you like? When`s your birthday?"_

" _Soon."_

" _You should have a party."_

" _No-o-oo."_

" _A gathering, at least. I need a night off from motherhood on occasion. C`mon Molly, we can do tequila shots…"_

" _Double no-o-oo! Tequila is my mindswipe. It's literally a lobotomy situation the next morning… it just wouldn't be safe, Mary."_

" _Ah, who needs safe?"_

 _Later, Mary runs her fingers across Molly`s lucky jade green Buddha and contemplates the random clutter that people collate over their lifetimes. To her, most ornaments seemed… well, pointless. She pushes back a glassy-eyed kitten climbing out of a pottery basket and retrieves a small, folding penknife with pearlised handle and brass rivets lying behind it. With one expert flick, she unfolds the blade and notes a tiny engraving at its base- `MH`. And yet, the knife does not seem like something Molly would own. Knives were her craft, not her hobby._

" _You`ve taken up whittling?" She holds it up as Molly emerges with two, brimming glasses of Sauvignon Blanc from the kitchen (cake is fine, but so is wine)._

" _It isn't mine," she confirms, placing the glasses carefully lest a precious drop should be wasted._

 _Mary points to initials, yet her friend shakes her head._

" _You would notice that. Yes, but still not mine. Sherlock left it here. He must have nicked it, from Mycroft I`d guess."_

 _Mary`s brows are raised as she lifts her glass, but she corrals her interest and takes her time. No point startling these innocents._

" _Sounds like him. Does he often drop in? You should be strict with him, Molly. He shouldn't be bothering you at home with his bits and pieces and stuff he`s fished out of the Thames."_

 _Molly swallows a gulp of wine, but merely shrugs._

" _Occasionally he drops in. He's no bother, actually. It's quite nice when he's finished talking through the case and we watch a bit of telly together. He likes Strictly Come Dancing, but usually falls asleep before the final scoring."_

 _Mary Watson stares but keeps it casual. She musters all she knows about poker faces._

" _He sleeps here? John says he rarely sleeps during cases."_

" _Yeah, sometimes on the sofa, or the spare bedroom… well, my bedroom. We agreed that he needs the space. Messy, you know."_

 _Mary finds she is unable to trust to a comment, since she is unsure how the timbre of her voice might emerge from her mouth. She contemplates texting John in her pocket (wouldn`t be the first time) but is a little too unnerved. Molly picks up a peanut from the bowl on the table and observes her friend with a slightly analytical tilt of her head and the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth._

" _You mustn`t worry, Mary. I can handle him. He`s ok with me now," she bites through the peanut, crunching it. "He's a mate, like he is with you. We're good."_

 _How strange, considers Mary, smoothing her finger across the pearlised handle again, that people who observe - who are paid to observe for a living, and pretty good at it too- can be so piss poor at seeing what they really should be seeing._

" _You're as good as gold," she says._

 _ **~x~**_

We've found our clothes, for all the good it will do us.

"Soaking wet." Sherlock lifts his purple shirt from the dripping pile that populates most of my kitchen floor. Even his Belstaff (at the very bottom of the pile) is sodden and utterly unwearable.

"Please tell me it's water," I poke at my favourite black party top with my bare foot, saddened by its limp and twisted vulnerability. Arms pulled inside out, all labels showing. Undignified, really. Sherlock is sifting through the pile and I know he's thinking. I'm praying he can deduce us a way out of this bizarre and frightening situation. Snipers. I'm imagining red dots appearing across our _sheet-togas_ at any given moment.

"Molly, stop immediately."

I haven`t spoken.

"Directionless fretting is pointless. We have very little data, therefore a fearful (and consequently unproductive) state is less than helpful at this moment in time."

" _Data_ , Holmes! - never mind the pep talk - you said `very little`... What you got for me?"

He glares up at me over his (naked) shoulder (has that man ever let his skin see the sun?) rolling his bloodshot eyes and failing entirely to mask a deep sigh. I have never seen Sherlock Holmes even a little inebriated, so _Hangover!Sherlock_ is a less than appealing predicament. For the both of us. Sherlock drops the purple sleeve which slops pathetic and flaccid back into its soggy aggregation. I know exactly how it feels.

"The arrangement of fastened and unfastened buttons on my shirt; the arrangement of the sleeves of your blouse (right inside out, left the right way); my balled up socks; your half undone press-studs on your trousers provide us with excellent markers as to deducing what happened to us last night."

I feel a wash of queasiness, coupled with a fresh outbreak of sweat on my upper lip, so I decide to sit down abruptly next to him. He looks as pale as I feel. I am close enough to see tiny beads of moisture across his usually flawless brow and I decide to cut Sherlock Holmes a little slack.

"And… this means?"

"That we obviously undressed ourselves. Observations of both mine and your hurried undressing habits clearly indicate our favoured methods of disrobing. You habitually miss the third and fifth button, whilst I always pair up my socks, no matter how exhausted I might be."

Sherlock has made actual notes (mental or otherwise) regarding the way I undress? I don't quite know whether to be affronted, or… just horrified.

"Where? When?"

He sighs, running a slightly shaking hand through inexplicable curls.

"Here. At Bart's. Everywhere. When you take off your coat, adjust your blouse, your cardigan. Changing into scrubs in the lab when you couldn't be bothered to repair to the lockers…"

"It was midnight! I was alone."

"Clearly, you were not."

Oh god.

"I would have spoken out, but John advised me it would have embarrassed you."

"John was there!?"

A pause. Neither of us has strength for speech.

We sit, defeated, deflated and slightly nauseated on my cold kitchen tiles, surveying the wreckage of our combined wardrobes and I have a sense of missing the point of the conversation amid a plethora of overpowering and unwelcome information. I take a deep (and hopefully cleansing) breath and pull my toga more tightly about me as I rearrange my features into what I hope and pray is a more amenable disposition.

"Sherlock - no-one else undressed us. That's good, isn't it? It means we weren't stripped naked by a bunch of vengeful criminals who wish us harm."

But he looks at me and I realise my _faux bonhomie_ was perhaps a little bit previous. Drunk as we obviously were, we wouldn't have stripped off, then soaked our clothes in water and hidden our shoes, phones and the entire remainder of my other clothes in a place that neither of us could recall. Some malevolent forces were clearly at work here, and as soon as I find my keys, I'm going to unlock my front door and go and find them.

 _ **~x~**_


	3. Chapter 3

I could quite easily break a window and have done with it.

When Molly isn't home, I have often been inconvenienced enough to gain entrance via my set of lockpicks and a lubricated credit card ( _often Mycroft's, or John's, as the whimsy takes me_ ) and, although such options have been stripped from this occasion ( _and my coat pockets- how enchantingly thorough they have been_ ), if required, I could quite easily take my leave of this place. Nakedness ( _or near nakedness_ ) has rarely been an issue for me, and Londoners being _so_ remiss in the taking in their washing of an evening, an arrest for indecent exposure would be less than likely.

However…

I loosen my bedsheet ( _hilarious on occasion; less so after two hours of chafing_ ) and kneel a little closer to the mattress. Our abductors have failed to relieve Molly Hooper of her cosmetic magnifying lens ( _cuticles? I am at a loss…_ ) thus, I have a rudimentary device with which to view the evidence as it presents itself. Physical discomfort, I find, dissipates pleasantly when the mind is occupied. The vagaries and inconvenience of _the transport_ may be forgotten when there are details to be scrutinized and audited. First hand evidence at at the scene is always invaluable, and I now have the good fortune to be the first on hand to gather all the information I can from this crime scene; the crime itself not yet entirely specified, bar _the distinct inconveniencing of Mr Sherlock Holmes_ (in my eyes, a very manifest and real offence).

I am so very close; close enough to inhale, almost taste the stain upon the sheet (so slight, yet its greasy patina cannot be ignored) and then scrape a minute sample upon a plastic lid ( _Tupperware- what is that?_ ), although I could not dare to hope the cuticle lens could be of any-

"Sherlock, you are going to love me forever!"

I am startled enough to drop both the lens and _Tupperware_ , and experience a severe lurch within my chest, causing an unpleasant wash of heat across my entire body which I can only attribute to alcohol withdrawal. _Molly Hooper_. I had quite forgotten she was here, and annoyance at being startled straddles everything else, robbing me of my good humour. I turn, brows drawn and a cutting phrase burgeoning unbidden from my lips…

Yet-

There, in the manner of the muse of Frédéric Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, stands Molly Hooper, brandishing ( _in lieu of a flaming torch_ ) a… microscope.

"They missed it. I had it from my first placement at Bart's. I was so embarrassed when I saw the ones the other students were using, I hid this in the back of my cupboard. No-one thought to look there."

I simply stare at her; draped in cotton and holding aloft that _device_. She's cleaned her teeth (hurriedly, with a different toothbrush than usual) and attempted to tame her hair. Dimpled cheeks shine with honeysuckle scented soap (her second favourite, after grapefruit) and the joy of … discovery.

" _Siedentopf_ binocular head is 30° inclined, rotates 360°, and includes dual diopters."

I stand, adjusting my sheet and moving towards her.

"It also has extra-bright premium 20-watt halogen illumination, with variable intensity control for glare-free and uniform specimen illumination… _Sherlock_?"

And as I take it from her grasp, I actually manage a smile ( _the first in at least fifteen hours, maybe more_ ) and contemplate an unfamiliar warmth stealing through me, for which I have no reference points. It is something strong, confused and vertiginous which is both appealing and upsetting. Her brown eyes glitter happily as she relinquishes her prize ( _so easily)_ and I am breathless without knowing why.

"Thank you," I say, frowning.

I hate not knowing.

 **~x~**

 _Isn't it obvious?_

" _Na-ah, Molly!" Disdain drips from each syllable, whilst still maintaining a softness; a warmth and affection in its tone. A most unusual and impressive achievement._

" _That ain't nothing but a tincture! A distillation of belladonna needs at least another five minutes in the centrifuge."_

" _So YOU say!"_

" _So I KNOW! Hey we ain`t gonna start `aving trust issues are we? Are we gonna have us some WORDS, Molly `ooper?"_

 _Such stern words spoken in such a teasing and respectful address would merely indicate to a third party overhearing such words that these two were not merely acquaintances, but actual friends._

 _If one had cause to be interested._

" _Nah." She throws his words back at him, aping his tone. "Trust issues are for middle-class lentil eaters who are always looking for their inner-chi… we just hate each other, Wiggins."_

 _He yelps out a gravelly bark of laughter and scraping of stools across polished laboratory floors can be heard, as if a scuffle might be underway. A good natured scuffle at that, since breathless exclamations and laughter punctuate the shifting of bodies and furniture. Eventually, all is realigned and his voice can be heard again, accompanied by the unmistakable woosh of the centrifuge ending its cycle and the lifting of lids and opening of drawers._

" _You're stalling `ooper...am I right, or am I right?"_

" _You're pretty unbearable, actually."_

" _I'm just gonna wait…."_

" _Hmm."_

" _I`m right. Knew it. Seven percent solution, eh?"_

" _Shurrup."_

 _More laughter, then another door opens into the lab as John Watson peers in, eyes lighting up in a smile of recognition._

" _Ah, Molly… Wiggins, you here again? What is it with you, Molly, attracting all the nutters?"_

" _Hey!"_

" _Speaking of whom, have you seen Sherlock? He said he was on his way over here ages ago. Said to meet him - something about some deadly nightshade or something?"_

 _The faintest creak of a poorly-oiled hinge from the other door into Lab 4._

" _Talk of the devil." Molly's smile, both wicked and affectionate._

" _Hi, Sherlock, just in time for the happy results- "_

 _(A snort from Wiggins)_

" _Wotcha, Sherlock! Me an` Molly got it down pat. Dream team, eh Molly?"_

 _John sees Sherlock`s smile, like a Great White, circling the leaking fishing boat, and gives his friend a pointed stare, which is studiously ignored._

" _How utterly charming," he lifts the test tube, holding it to the light. "So nice to see you out and about after dark, Wiggins. They have obviously removed your- device."_

 _Immediately, an element of cock-sure showboating emerges as Wiggins dangles his ankle, complete with electronic tag before his audience (in particular, in front of Molly Hooper, who should be less than encouraging but disappointingly appears to embolden his swagger)._

" _Found a way around it, didn`t I? S`amazing what you can do with your nan's knitting needle and a bit of solder. No-one knows where I am after six!"_

 _Sherlock smiles again; vulpine, predatory._

 _Dangerous, thinks John Watson, his eyes darting between a wide-eyed, smiling Molly Hooper and the barracuda who used to be his friend (now consulting his phone)._

" _Wiggins, I must offer thanks for your assistance with the distillation, but it appears that Jaz,Tiggs and several lads from the squat are down at the Embankment, near the Eye. Something about a payout from Paulie?"_

 _The punching of the air in a vaguely triumphant motioning indicates this is good news, and Wiggins takes his leave, with a wave and a wink (the latter directed at the only pathologist in the room), leaving just the swinging door and miasma of city grime in the air behind him._

 _It isn't until Sherlock and he are on the staircase that leads out into Giltspur Street that John Watson is struck by a sudden notion that halts him in his tracks._

" _The London Eye?"_

 _Sherlock has halted also, but doesn't meet the eyes of his friend in the dimly-lit stairwell, which sort of tells John all he needs to know._

" _Sherlock - isn't the London Eye the exact place- "_

" _Mmm…?"_

" _No, Sherlock - the EXACT place that Lestrade and half the Met are, at this minute, waiting for an informant to turn up? The place will be crawling with police, and Wiggins will be waltzing right into-"_

 _John stops, giving Sherlock the darkest of stares and shoving his hands deep into his jacket in a gesture of disgust._

" _This is poorly done, my friend."_

" _John, I had completely forgotten-"_

" _No, no you hadn`t forgotten, Sherlock. You haven't forgotten anything since you were three months old, bar fetching milk and returning your mother`s phone calls, so don't try to wriggle out of this one!"_

 _John Watson is exuding repressed and vehement anger through every pore, and Sherlock wisely chooses to say nothing, yet there is something else in the mix which perks his interest as he watches his friend attempt to master his vexation…_

 _Empathy? Pity? Surely not. And yet, Sherlock feels certain that something akin to these two emotions was the only thing preventing his friend from punching him in the face at that moment._

" _John, I- "_

 _But Captain Watson`s eyes are on him in a millisecond, silencing with a single look._

" _Just sort it out, Sherlock - this is bloody ridiculous! Sort. It. Out." A pause, heavy with intent and pent up frustration._

" _Or I will."_

 _ **~x~**_


	4. Chapter 4

Hydrogenated castor oil? Even allowing for the most bohemian of eating habits, how would this have found its way onto Molly's bedding? She assures me she recalls changing her sheets yesterday morning, so a recent addition then. Not the kitchen cupboards… The microscope, although rudimentary, showed evidence of recognisable polymers, notably propylene glycol. Also, that distinctive scent, of lime blossom... Oh-

"Sherlock, you are rifling through my bathroom cabinets like Boots is having a _two-for-one_ \- just tell me what you`re looking for and I-"

"Where would you find propylene glycol and palm oil together, in a product? A product that smells of lime?"

I _may_ have barked the question ( _tension, dehydration, excessive sheet-wearing_ ) yet she answers immediately by putting a small hand across my own, frenetic scrabblings, and ceasing them.

"Hair gel," she says, and I widen my eyes in realisation.

"Lestrade's." I add, curiosity ignited.

 **~x~**

The remnants coalesce in the bottom of the glass bowl like a yellowy-brown urine sample of dubious origin. Molly draws up a practised syringe and decants expertly into a sterilised ice-lolly mould ( _in lieu of a test tube)_. Sherlock removes a litmus strip from a pack ( _back of knicker draw, don't ask)_ and places it deep within the sample. They wait.

"In essence, it is like a pH test – only it doesn't react to the level of pH but rather to the process of pH change that takes place in the solution when GHB and the reagent used in the Smith's test react with each other," comments Molly Hooper, glancing at the kitchen clock above her cooker.

Sherlock nods, briefly. If he feels horror and disgust at the idea of _gamma hydroxybutyric acid_ being involved in his party beverage, he shows no emotive reaction, only analytical design. _GHB_ has neither taste nor colour, but the pH change would mean a green caste would taint the dregs of the punch they had found in the u-bend of the sink drain. The sample was undoubtedly contaminated, but _Smith`s_ test was the only one available to people trapped in an ill-equipped London flat miles from the nearest laboratory, in particular when those people had decided they were on a mission. A mission for truth.

"A few moments Sherlock."

He nods, his trust apparent, and she feels a glow of warmth from that; a glow that does not flicker when the palest shade of viridian emerges from the lolly mould.

"It`s not a particularly strong dose," Molly Hooper physically cannot believe bad of people she cares about. "But it would have given the tequila an extra kick- Jesus!"

Sherlock Holmes glowers, staring down at the sample with little rancour but inherent curiosity. The single-minded tenacity of humanity never ceases to amaze him; people wanted him comatose and pliant and had succeeded in their design, despite his excellent brain and impressive reactive capacity. His list of suspects was growing exponentially, but several pieces were missing from the puzzle…

 _Motive._

This had happened. _Why_ had it happened?

"Why have people drugged me and locked me inside your flat, Molly Hooper?"

He looks, deep and icelandic, searching and honest in his question, but Molly shakes her head incredulously, holding up the sample in its ridiculous receptacle.

"Sherlock Holmes, I rather think your question should be rephrased to ask, why have _people_ drugged _us_ and locked _us_ into my flat?" Her finely arched brow rises in unspoken challenge, as Sherlock decides her (recently dried) black silk party top skims her pale shoulders and neck with a poignantly elegant punctuation that he would never be capable of expressing or sharing with her, and what a pity that was.

"Sherlock, you are quite the selfish git, " she remarks.

And he can only nod in acquiescence.

 **~x~**

 _Isn't it obvious?_

 _Her beeper rents the already well-populated air of the busy cafeteria at Bart's and Molly Hooper pushes away the clammy pasta, glad to have good reason._

" _Aw, not again?" APT Joanne is polite, but resignedly robotic in her empathy. Too many lunches were guiltily snatched where death was the collateral and time was the currency._

 _She strides purposefully, but not manically (they'll still be dead when she's climbed a flight of stairs) and adjusts her white coat and lanyard, wondering what the urgency was that Sanderson or even Mike couldn't unzip the black bag on this occasion. She knew she was more than competent at the unravelling of a COD, but this wasn't CSI and no-one was indispensable. She passes two porters walking away from the doors of Lab two and catches their words on the air (almost like a gift)-_

" _Tall ones are always a `mare to get off the trolley…"_

 _Molly walks more quickly. She sees Gregory Lestrade ahead in the distance, alongside Sally Donovan. They are going in her direction. This kind of coincidence makes her insides churny and her scalp prickly. She doesn`t wave._

 _The familiar flap of the doors serves only as slight reassurance as APT Sarah Gnezere looks up from her conversation with the two Yarders whilst Molly washes her hands and pulls on new gloves. Her hands are shaking- why?_

 _Not only Sarah. Sally and Greg are also glancing over to her as she walks slowly across towards the brushed steel table where the black body bag is lain, only partially unzipped. Why are her legs feeling so weighted? Their eyes catch hers and Sarah fumbles over something she holds. She is next to the body. It`s long; she can see already as she nears the slab. The few matted tendrils of hair she can see are dark._

 _(Tall ones are always a `mare…)_

 _God, why does she have this thumping in her chest? How many dead people have you seen now, Molly Hooper? How many corpses have (literally) slipped through your fingers? How many people have you eviscerated?_

 _Feet are heavy. Dragging._

 _Sally`s brown eyes catch hers, are they… sympathetic?_

 _Greg… he can`t quite meet her gaze._

 _Which is worse?_

 _(Tall ones are always a `mare)_

 _Seventy two days since he came back._

 _It's ok, it's fine. It`s my job._

 _Six feet away._

 _(why are my legs so heavy?)_

 _Sarah`s bright green eyes crinkle in a sad little frown of sympathy and awkwardness (I know her, she's my friend) as she lifts her hand. She is gloved. She is holding something._

 _Greg, looking away._

 _Sally, looking down and shuffling her feet._

 _(Tall ones are always a `mare)_

 _Four feet away._

 _Sarah lifts her hand…_

 _It's ok, it's fine. It`s my- why did you call me? (Sanderson? Mike? Anyone?)_

 _The clock is ticking. It's so very loud. Why is time so loud?_

 _Seventy two days. Before that, he was dead for such a long time._

 _Glancing up, Molly sees a piece of fabric in Sarah's hand. The deepest cranberry. Amethyst. Silk mix. Gieves and Hawkes? No, Dolce. £300 at least. Clinically, callously cut from a corpse. In the hands of a morgue assistant as she watches Molly Hooper`s knees buckle and is helpless as the two detectives lunge forward to assist, to arrest her collapse as her legs give way._

 _Everything buzzes about Molly's head as strong hands buoy her up and fuss as she comes back to herself. She has never, ever fainted in the workplace. Not even an explosion of putrid offal from a submerged victim of a river boat disaster has turned her stomach, but today…_

 _(Tall ones ...)_

 _Seventy two days._

" _What the hell?" (Greg) "Molly… Sally, what the hell…?!"_

 _And all Molly Hooper can do is squeeze tight her eyes as she wills herself into consciousness and hears the deep, distraught words of Greg Lestrade as water is pressed to her lips._

" _Molly, are you alright?" (Shuffling) Molly smells the faintest tang of Je Reviens… Sally Donovan ... "For God's sake, boss, move over!"_

" _But, the body- "_

 _But Sally shushes him. Molly feels her hands, holding her pulse. Detective as doctor._

" _It`s a haemophiliac stabbing victim Molly; an informant. It`s not … please open your eyes."_

 _She can't open them, since her eyes have done her no favours today. Her head buzzes horribly._

 _(Seventy two days)_

 _Shuffling and whispering. Greg:_

" _Molly, please… I'm so sorry... I didn't think …"_

 _Sally, leaning close, the faintest of whispers: "It's not him. It's not Sherlock…"_

 _Of course it isn`t._

 _Sherlock doesn't wear cufflinks._

 _Stupid cow._

 _ **~x~**_

Sherlock lies across the carpet of my bedroom floor, in a pose (and a shirt) that have fuelled many a fantasy in days gone by. My cuticle lens has rarely seen so much action ( _nails? I work inside corpses, for God's sake_ ) as he pushes his pale, impassive and perfectly focused face into the depths of my mottled green berber. He also presents _quite the view_ and challenges the thread strength of his bespoke tailoring to its very limits.

"Sorry again about the tumble dryer."

He continues in his scrutinies, but I do detect the faintest crinkle across that pale brow, so I know he's heard me.

"Shrinks just about every other thing I put in it."

I tilt my head and smile. in line with his view, as he adjusts his position slightly, tucking in his shirt tail and flicking open another button.

"I just hope you can still breathe-" Oh, goodness, the _sternest of looks_ , but my smirk remains and we stare for just a moment until I take pity on him.

"Whatcha found then?" I ask, indulgently, and he sits up, lifting a slide from the carpet and reaching for my rubbish microscope. I _could_ take a look first, but I'm busy watching Sherlock Holmes in that purple shirt.

Don't judge me.

 **~x~**

Definitely seeds.

I look up from the lens to see impatient, coruscating eyes measuring my every move, my every reaction; searching my face as if thoughts and ideas could be leeched from my skin and hair. When Sherlock Holmes looks at you, you really get _seen_.

"...and?"

I shake my head. Maybe if they'd been part of someone's stomach contents?

"Can it be that you do not _see_?" He takes my place at the lens and the focus.

"The rounded casings, with the tiniest of dints at such regular intervals. Such a seed casing is extremely unusual in this part of the country; so rare for it to be in London at all."

I watch his long fingers reposition the slide again, bringing in a little more light and as he leans forward, a single lock of hair falls across his eye (my shampoo is clearly not his usual brand), and his perfect mouth curves slightly in concentration as a tiny whistle, a breath of air, escapes in a sigh.

"Attached to someone's clothes, perhaps? Like those burdock plants?"

I am rewarded with a glance of momentary consideration, then rejection ( _story of my life, I think_ ) as he returns to the seeds.

"Unlikely to have travelled in clothing without the smallest hint of other fluff or fibres. No, these are rare, but not unknown in London. There are from a plant from the Balsam family; _Polynesian Balsam_ to be precise, and it is only found in four (no, three) locations this side of the river. They are not wet, so were brought inside within the last twenty-four hours on someone's shoe."

"So, where?"

"The nearest, and most likely is a small patch of land in Houndsditch, off the Severant Road, adjacent to _The Roman General_ public house, and -

I place my hand across his arm to stop him, since _Mr A to Z_ would continue ( _even without access to WiFi_ ) to give as precise a descriptor as was possible, but I know _exactly_ where he means and _exactly_ which crack den is right next to it … not to mention the druggie- _ad hoc_ -chemist-slash-amateur poisoner, who lives there.

 _ **~x~**_


	5. Chapter 5

_Isn`t it Obvious?_

 _October had drizzled on and on in the manner of a rain-sodden, more fluid Ice Age, and it appeared that, although this had a fairly predictable outcome for the London traffic, it had quite the diametric effect on the London criminal. This, in turn, had imposed quite the negative influence upon my friend._

" _Crimes and criminals are not as they were, John," he complained, tuning his Stradivarius for another assault on what I laughably used to call `peace and quiet`. "Efforts are not being made and everything is of the lowest calibre."_

 _I had a date-night with Mary at our favourite Greek Restaurant to look forward to, so I felt inclined to cut him some slack and not point out that law-breakers probably didn't undertake their nefarious deeds about the city for the sole intention of amusing Sherlock Holmes and keeping him busy._

" _You`ve checked the blog, then?"_

 _Sherlock gestured peevishly at my laptop with his bow, as if the machine itself were responsible for his lack of distraction._

" _Yes John, I did have a spare five minutes before tea, so I solved the three insipid (and frankly, insulting) cases currently populating your hopelessly deflated blog- "_

 _Folding my arms, I contemplated the length of the slack I may yet be cutting in accordance with his current mood and wondered how soon I could make my excuses-_

" _I am sure Mary shall be more than thrilled if you arrive early for your evening at `The Greek Dessert Eater`," commented Sherlock, plucking disconsolately at his A string and settling the violin against his shoulder. "I hear the baklava is superb."_

 _I narrowed my eyes, determined not to ask how he knew where I was going._

" _To die for, apparently," I returned, looking around for my jacket before the tuning up really got underway. Suddenly, he stopped, mid-pluck, beckoning my attention with an artfully raised brow._

" _Mmmm," murmured he, resuming repetitious sawings and lowering his gaze as I move towards the doorway, anxious to be out in the rain and away from the claustrophobia of a tense and suffocating Baker Street._

" _From what I hear of the sous-chef's reputation from Wiggins, that could be an actual possibility." He flashes a sudden and hugely innocent smile as my hand is on the doorknob (so close…)_

" _Bon appetit, John."_

 _ **~x~**_

 _ **Fancy Italian instead? JW**_

 _ **What? MW**_

 _ **Heard The Botanist does a great babaganoosh. JW**_

 _ **John, I'm nearly at the restaurant. What`s going on? MW**_

 _ **No, don't bother replying. Sherlock`s been deducing you hasn't he? Is he very bored? MW**_

 _ **Almost indoor pistol practise bored. Seems criminals can't be arsed and he`s taken it to heart. JW**_

 _ **Shit. MW**_

 _ **He'll get over it. He's just being a giant toddler at the moment. JW**_

 _ **Have you checked the usual places? MW**_

 _ **What? No. You're overreacting. This isn't a danger night. JW**_

 _ **Remember, you said that last time, and it was in the Cluedo box. I`m worried. MW**_

 _ **John? MW**_

 _ **I'm ringing Mycroft. JW**_

 _ **~x~**_

" _John, how delightfully unexpected to hear from you on such an extremely inclement Friday evening. I do hope Mrs Watson is well, and young Sholto."_

" _Er, yeah, they - we're all cock-a-hoop, Mycroft. Look, I'm not going to apologise for disturbing you, since I'm almost positive you're still in the office."_

" _Lamentably, that is so. Issues that require my attention are seldom so solicitous as to respect, or even acknowledge office hours. Since you are clearly in a hurry to be at your delightful Hellenic dinner this evening, I shall take the liberty of suggesting that your enquiry purports towards my brother."_

" _How the hell either of you seem to know so much about my social arrangements is going to be pushed aside tonight, Mycroft, since I think you might want to check in on Sherlock. He`s agitated, bored, listless and spoiling for a fight of some kind. It could be he's got a yearning for a fix of another sort. I`ve actually half a mind to turn back now and sit in with him, so long as I can hide his violin."_

" _No."_

" _No to the violin, or no to the turning back?"_

" _No to the danger night, John. Since `that' day, Sherlock has been clean."_

" _What?"_

" _I shall merely reiterate that, for the past thirteen months since his return from the airfield, my brother has not indulged even once in his entirely plebeian and rather disappointing little habit."_

" _And you know this- how? How do you know this?"_

" _I know this since I witness Molly Hooper drawing blood from him on the first Tuesday of every month and await her emailing of the results a mere hour later."_

" _I- I- How have you enforced-"_

" _John… do you still labour under the falsest of beliefs that my dear brother can be enforced to undertake any directive from either myself or any other party, if he cares not to? He has suggested and elected this course of action for himself. He wishes it this way."_

" _And you don't think he'll slip?"_

" _There has, has there not, been several occasions where Sherlock could have recoursed to his old habits over the last thirteen months, but he has chosen not to, and this is how it is now."_

" _Well. That's just- that's pretty impressive, Mycroft. Whatever`s inspired this `just-say-no' way of thinking, I'm grateful for it."_

" _As am I, John, as am I."_

 _Whatever that may be._

 _ **~x~**_

I have a surfeit of unpalatable notions deduced from the detritus of Molly Hooper`s domicile, and in the five hours since I awoke in her bed this morning, I have collated, corroborated and corralled them (somewhat sluggishly) towards identification of the culprits and the motives of this case. I could, as previously stated, have left this morning and resumed my life outside of these walls, but they say that genius has an infinite capacity for taking pains, and it is worth any degree of physical discomfiture (I have been poisoned many times, and this barely qualifies a mention) in order to solve an interesting puzzle. Thus, since nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person, I look about the room for Molly, since she is a more than adequate conductor of light on occasion. My legs and back are quite stiff and I do note three cold, untouched cups of tea placed at increasingly impatient angles on the table next to my chair (I sip at one out of curiosity. Surprisingly OK.) which leads me to surmise I have been deliberating here for quite some time. Stretching (ever trepidatiously- the snugness of the shirt is annoyingly restrictive), I rotate my shoulder to release residual stiffness in the scalenus medius and trapezius.

Then, where is she?

The kitchen is empty, except for my coat drying across a radiator and a laboured ticking of the clock (how can it be almost dark outside?), so I step through into the small hall and landing, checking spare bedroom, and then bathroom door (Molly always locks it now- tedious) only to discover it standing ajar. No Molly. Annoying, less than convenient, and … something else? I marvel at my own ridiculousness; this is an extremely compact flat and therefore the only remaining room must be where she is-

Sleeping.

A small, dim side lamp glows softly, suffusing the bedroom with a muted light in the gathering gloom. She lies, dressed in her party darkness, curled foetus-like, facing away from the light as if it offends, her left hand curled almost querulous beneath her chin. _Who are you?_ She could be asking. _Why are you here?_ Her paleness swims, candescent from a bower of blackness; white hand, white face, eyelashes curved, feathering and shadowing across smoothness of skin, also lips, mouth, softened by sleep and coalescing in some degree of inexplicably moving serenity.

For the second time this day, my heart seems to hitch and recalibrate in my chest and I`m aware of the door knob (Bakelite, original fittings, fetching £25 a pair in Petticoat Lane) smooth and rippled beneath my left hand, rattling so slightly, and I let out a calming breath, since Molly is sleeping. She sleeps almost as little as me; snatched cat-naps when the workload is overwhelming and immediacy of results are the currency of a case in progress. Sometimes, when I stay here, I hear her creak upon the landing, looking for her favourite mug ( _first cupboard on the left of the oven, second shelf down)_ and the manuka honey _(third cupboard, hidden inadequately at the very back, behind the piccalilli, lest I should find it- I am apparently untrustworthy with honey)_ to sweeten the milk she warms on the cooker ( _back left burner; the right has an unreliable ignition_ ). Through walls made of virtual paper, I hear her turn between forty and sixty pages of her most comforting book ( _Pride and Prejudice- turgid_ ) before sighing and attempting sleep again. Her mattress creaks and bends in the most comforting and predictable pattern which almost always serves to soothe and to calm. I conceive of her wondering if I, on the other side of the wall, am imagining Serbian forests, German underpasses and Middle Eastern souks; running and disappearing into the fabric of another country, another life. But I am not.

I slowly unclench my hold on the Bakelite handle and it ceases its rattle. I step into the opalescent darkness and look down on Molly Hooper, sleeping now, not thinking of me at all, and I feel neither guilt nor regret as I touch her shoulder and speak her name ( _deep, soft, quiet - I am not entirely selfish)_.

"Molly, please wake up. I would like to talk to you. I want to tell you what has happened to us."

 **~x~**


	6. Chapter 6

_Isn`t it obvious?_

 _I`m pulling out drawers randomly now, since not only do I not really know what it is I`m looking for, I have also stopped caring whether or not I`ve found it._

" _Imperative, John."_

" _What is?"_

" _It is imperative that you find the lanyard. It`s possible that a-"_

" _Yeah, a man`s life might well depend on it - when isn't that a consideration for me doing supremely ill-advised and vaguely criminal jobs for you, Sherlock?"_

" _It isn't for me, John."_

" _No?"_

" _It's for science."_

 _I rummage around in the third drawer down, realising that if Sanderson comes into his office on the fourth floor of Bart's at this very moment, the argument of Sherlock`s imperativeness will probably have little sway in my avoiding some degree of embarrassment and a possible moderate to severe slap on the wrist._

 _Staplers, glasses, pencils, a menu from a nearby sushi bar and a tatty looking business card depicting a stiletto shoe and the name `Lady Frances` in flamboyant script. I drop it like it's hot, and try to avoid any mental imagery of Sanderson and her ladyship. As I close the drawer as softly as possible and make to get out of Dodge in the next thirty seconds, I note an unusually placed object beneath the bottom drawer, just poking out a black corner. Some git once said that things being where they are not expected to be is usually worth noting, so my fingers stretch to gain purchase on the smooth, rectangular casing and I pull it out with a huff of effort._

 _Not an incriminating lanyard._

 _A phone._

 _Losing all sense of appropriateness and trespassing guilt, I slide it into my pocket, without really knowing why._

 _ **~x~**_

 _It's almost a week later that I remember the phone as I'm looking for loose change for the tube in my jacket pockets. It`s a fairly basic Nokia, at least five years old, dusty, and scuffed around the edges, with a slightly cracked screen. Prior knowledge of Sanderson being an inveterate phone snob assures me this could never have been his, so why was it in his office, lurking beneath his filing cabinet? Rifling round (yet again) in our kitchen crap drawer I unearth an old Nokia charger, pessimistically plugging it in. Probably won't even charge up. Probably knackered and cast aside. No SIM, so not missed by anyone. Probably._

 _The screen lights up instantly. No picture screen saver, no time or date setting. I really should let Sherlock take a look at it. He`d deduce the owner was a one-legged milliner with a predilection for almond croissants in around thirty seconds (on a bad day), but I'm not having much luck. No contacts, no photos, no messages, nothing._

 _That is, until I open up the phone's own memory, where, in an unnamed folder, I see message after message saved; scrolling and scrolling, I see hundreds and hundreds. Some are several paragraphs of carefully typed words (no ridiculous abbreviations for these people), some just consisting of a single word, but all ending in either one of two signatories:_

 _SH_

 _MH_

 _ **~x~**_

 _I know I shouldn't read them - invasion of privacy in the most extreme sense - but how often do you have the chance to read the words of a dead man? All the texts between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper date from the day he jumped from the roof at Bart's, and end one week before he appeared at my table with a bottle of champagne and a vastly inappropriate demeanour. Some are minutes apart, and some have whole weeks between them, but there was always communication, always a two-way street. So, yes, I read them. I read them and parts of me wish I'd never seen that corner of a phone poking out from what lay beneath, since now I can never un-read them and carry on as before, in an only half-imagined understanding of what was set out before me…_

 _ **x**_

 ** _I can`t catch my breath-very dark in here. SH_**

 ** _The harness will have bruised you. The trauma is real and jarring. Close your eyes. It`s OK. You are OK. You are safe. MH_**

 ** _Breathe, Sherlock. Deep breaths. One at a time. MH_**

 ** _Sherlock? MH_**

 ** _What have I done? SH_**

 _ **x**_

 ** _The inside of the area behind the iconostasis reaches through the Beautiful Gates (or Angel Doors), and is called the sanctuary. Gold everywhere. Within this area is the altar table, which is more often called the holy table or throne - there are markings beneath which are more than familiar to me, and most out of place in this church. There is also the Chapel of Prothesis on the north side where the offerings are prepared in the Proskomedia before being brought to the altar table and the holy vessels are stored; I notice that the Diaconicon is on the south side where they keep the vestments. Perhaps a place to hide also? Hard to believe, Molly, but orthodox altars are usually square. Traditionally they have a heavy brocade outer covering that reaches all the way to the floor, so where has this one disappeared to? Curious. All these Eastern Orthodox altars seem to have a saint's relics embedded inside them, usually that of a martyr, placed at the time they are consecrated. One wonders what your autopsy methods might make of such ad-hoc burial techniques? The light in here is quite breathtaking. What time is it in London? SH_**

 ** _I am eating cheese with my feet on a hot water bottle. Dexter has taken too many risks now. He is sure to get caught. Why doesn't his sister see him for what he is? Lazy writers. It`s a little after midnight._**

 ** _PS Wherever you are now - sounds unhygienic. MH_**

 _ **x**_

 ** _How is John? SH_**

 ** _Molly? SH_**

 ** _Defeated. MH_**

 _ **x**_

 ** _Have you got antibiotics? MH_**

 ** _Yes. SH_**

 ** _If your ankle still looks red and angry in twenty-four hours, call Mycroft. MH_**

 ** _Yes. SH_**

 ** _I mean it. MH_**

 ** _Don't fuck with me Sherlock. MH_**

 ** _I won`t. SH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _Merry Christmas Sherlock. MH_**

 ** _And a happy new year. Wherever you may be. MH_**

 _ **x**_

 ** _Twenty four hours of rain is twenty hours too many. I look out of my window and all I see are concrete walls, buildings, decay and destruction. It's been fifteen hours since I`ve heard from anyone and I suspect the man in the tower block opposite has murdered his wife. SH_**

 ** _A picture of unicorn riding a rainbow. Thank you, Molly Hooper. SH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _There can be no good come from this election result. SH_**

 ** _Preach. MH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _How can a pope resign? MH_**

 ** _He lost his way? MH_**

 ** _Poor focus. SH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _I felt him to be immortal. MH_**

 ** _No-one lives forever, Molly. SH_**

 ** _Jesus._**

 ** _Madonna._**

 ** _Nelson Mandela._**

 ** _Upsetting. MH_**

 ** _Inevitable. SH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _How is John? SH_**

 ** _OK. Better. MH_**

 ** _Good. That's good. SH_**

 ** _He has someone. A girlfriend. MH_**

 ** _Serious? SH_**

 ** _Yes. I think it is. MH_**

 ** _Good. SH_**

 ** _He will never stop missing you, Sherlock. MH_**

 ** _Irrelevant. SH_**

 ** _And you can stop with that crap, too. MH_**

 ** _x_**

 ** _I can hear footsteps. They will destroy my phone. Water is getting in somehow. I`m sitting in four inches already. Calculations poor. Thinking is slow. Cold is biting. Slowing me down. SH_**

 ** _Stay calm. Mycroft is close. It`s going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You are the strongest man I know. MH_**

 ** _I can see stars. Orion`s belt. Same sky as you. Foolish. Sentiment. SH_**

 ** _The cold is affecting you. Let them find you. Get out of that container; you are freezing to death. Please. MH_**

 ** _They are at the door. Six inches. So cold. Don`t leave me, Molly. SH_**

 ** _I will never leave you, Sherlock. MH_**

 _ **x**_

 _Molly Hooper unloops her parka from the hook in her locker, and as she does so, notices a small, rectangular piece of black plastic, placed deliberately against the bottom, right-hand corner. It is quite the jaunty angle, and she half expects a note to be accompanying her precious, long-lost phone, explaining its devastating absence- but of course there isn`t. Blood pounds in her ears as she gently lifts it, half-expecting a puff of smoke or shimmering hologram to dissipate her joy, but it is solid, smooth, real- a tangible reward for her silent, desolate patience._

 _Clutching it close to her, Molly closes her eyes, offers a silent prayer and simultaneously realises how ridiculous she is being whilst being unable to_ not _be. If she couldn't hold those three years in the palm of her hand, how could she believe they had ever been real?_

 _ **~x~**_


	7. Chapter 7

Firstly, the residual deposits on the bed sheets. Most definitely hair gel, and most recognisable as a well-known (lime-scented) brand worn on a daily basis by DI Gregory Lestrade. Party guest number one identified. His proximity to the scene of the crime confirmed.

Next, the condition of the kitchen. Apart from the pile of soaking clothing, the tidiness was (apologies to Molly Hooper) a little more proficient that was usual. Who does that whilst worse for wear at one`s own party? If there was any doubt remaining, the signature folding of the tea towel and regimented cups (handles all rallied in the same direction) pointed clearly at party guest number two: Mrs Mary Watson, and by association number three, Dr. John Watson.

Following on, the discovery of a drug-tainted punch in the U-bend of one`s sink (just the correct amount to avoid long-term illness and encourage a fulsome level of short-term amnesia) coupled with rare seeds brought in on a shoe from a very select location, serves to shine the spotlight on the fourth party guest at Molly Hooper`s soiree: Billy `the Wig` Wiggins.

Any residual drowsiness still holding Molly Hooper in its clutches was dissipating rapidly, as Sherlock sits opposite, cataloguing an increasingly incriminated bunch of friends.

"Additionally," he continues, adjusting his shirt for the umpteenth time, "flashes of memory are gradually beginning to emerge directly preceding the event. I had, as you might imagine, no intention of attending your birthday party last night-"

"Naturally."

"Not my-"

" _Area_?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock shifts incrementally in his seating arrangement across Molly's bed. Although no stranger to it`s lumpy mattress and unpredictable springs, he was suddenly aware of his proximity to her slightly ruffled, sleep-addled face. This was not how he usually disseminated his findings at the summation of a case. He sits back a little further.

"Yet, it was Mrs Hudson who _insisted_ I leave the flat, for fumigation purposes."

"Fumigation?"

He cocks an eyebrow and contemplates how this might now sound to a third party.

"An infestation. Woodworm."

Molly mirrors his contemplation, nodding as if to add gravitas.

"Unusual. Sudden onset?"

"I recall pointing this out, her comment being that insects were no respecters of the seasons."

They look at each other, in the sure and certain knowledge of being the victims of duplicity.

"So, we must add accomplice number five to this merry band: _Mrs Hudson_ ," intones Molly Hooper, leaning away from Sherlock Holmes, since a glint of gold was reflecting from the lamp deep into his eyes, and causing her some small distraction.

"We-ell," she folds her arms leaning back into her ancient bedstead, rattling it`s brass fittings. "Isn't _this_ a risky little game? _Playing_ with us- what the hell are they thinking? Poisoning us, Sherlock!" She sits up, indignant righteousness fuelling her words. "I remember telling Mary what a mindswipe tequila gave me, and she still adds it to the punch! Come to think of it, I wasn't even going to throw a party before she pushed me into it…" She stares at him, as though a momentous realisation has suddenly taken hold.

"Sherlock, she's _ruthless_!"

"Well- yes. Didn't you know?"

Molly Hooper, however, is standing, beginning to pace.

"Sherlock, they were _all_ in on it - our so called friends - making idiots of us! Mocking us! Just because, at one _ridiculous_ part of my life, I- I had _some kind of_ …" She looks down, humiliated. Sherlock looks at her, but he barely hears her words, merely senses her anger. Sherlock is thinking… _freckled shoulder wrapped in a white, crumpled sheet…_

"... they are mocking me, mocking our bloody friendship, that we've worked so hard for …"

Sherlock is thinking … _Molly, leaning over the microscope late at night, her lashes brushing the eyepiece …_

"... stealing and ruining our clothes ..."

Sherlock is thinking … _Molly`s gloved hand, cutting the string on the parcel of intestines- deft, swift, decisive, beautiful …_

"... even Sally was here last night, and she hates you ..."

Sherlock is thinking … _Molly laughing with Wiggins in the lab; he, himself, seething like an infant for days …_

"... locking us in here- what if there had been a fire?"

Sherlock is thinking … _enough_.

"We _both_ have spare keys."

His deep voice shocks her rant into silence; she watches him, her mouth still open.

"Mine is under the umbrella stand by the door." He tilts his head at at her, waiting.

"Er… mine in the spare sugar caddy, in the back of the cupboard by the window." Her voice sounds small and faintly ridiculous to her own ears.

They look at each other, honesty burgeoning, plucking around their edges, but unable to go further, until-

A click and clatter from the front door has Sherlock leaping like a cat, across the bed and out of the bedroom door in an instant. His throwing open of an newly unlocked front door mere seconds later serves to display an empty hallway, populated only by a large cardboard box next to the door jamb, appearing full of of clothes, phones, laptops and wallets, with a buff manila envelope sellotaped to it. After Sherlock rips it loose, Molly struggles to see it over his shoulder. It bears the legend:

 _`We regret nothing._

 _You had it coming._

 _Why are you in there?_

 _You know your methods?_

 _Apply them._

 _-Your Friends. x`_

 **~x~**

 **Epilogue**

As my consciousness floats, both nebulous and increasingly sentient towards the surface, I inhale deeply, luxuriantly, stretching my left foot in my waking from a dreamless, endless, euphoric state. It is then, with a heart-stopping jolt of the purest of joys that I detect the solid undeniable warmth of another limb, snaking around my own and pulling it closer.

And it is _not_ my own.

It is the foot and (surprisingly icy) toes of Molly Hooper, thus I allow myself to be pulled, and to _be_ closer. Despite my criminal lack of research into the matter, it seems that body heat increases exponentially in accordance with degree of proximity, and (surprisingly) level of emotional attachment.

I turn my head, sleep leeching away into the early morning light which sends pale shafts to ignite the tarnished brass bedstead in Molly's bedroom, and I find I am millimetres away from her brown eyes, her pale freckled skin, her arched ( _perfect)_ mouth, and it is still too far.

"Hello Sherlock," she whispers, warm, comforting, _everything_. "Have you solved it yet?"

My mouth crooks up at the side. She knows how I love a puzzle.

"S`simple," I drawl, a tongue still coming into its own. "It is so simple a puzzle, Molly Hooper, yet it has been so complicated for so very long."

"Hmm." Her arms (soft, speckled like plover's eggs) trace my shoulder, draw circles across my scapula; her cheek rests across my sternum, rising and falling as I breathe. She smiles up at me. Waiting.

"So many clues I have missed, so many observations I drew nothing from. We have existed, inside a bubble of us, for so long, we couldn't see what they could. There was an empty space, a void, an echoing chamber within the life we built around ourselves… we ... I made mistakes, Molly."

"We all do silly things." Her small chin digs into me as she speaks, eyes glittering, sparkling ( _enchanting_ ).

"I have always loved you, Sherlock," she says, clearly ( _wonderfully_ ). "What d`you think about that?"

And I wrap her tightly within my arms (in lieu of a white sheet) and settle my chin atop her soft, lavender scented hair.

"Isn't it obvious?" I say, smiling.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you all for following this little tale. Your reviews have been lovely to read.**

 **See you again soon. :)**


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